Sid and Murray used to meet in a park and play catch while talking baseball. Not long toss, mind you. They were both pushing 80, so they stood about 50 feet apart and lobbed the ball in that slow, nonchalant manner of professional ballplayers. “Shoulder high, Muhray,” Sid would shout.” C’mon, you can’t hold a proper conversation when the throw comes in at the knees.” “Yeah, yeah, I know, shoulder high, glove side,” Murray would respond as he caught Sid’s return toss.

They argued a lot, in a congenial way. Murray liked Mays over Mantle. “Mantle was the greatest, Sid, you gotta admit it. He was faster than Mays until he screwed up his knee on that goddamn irrigation gizmo.”

“Bull crap” said Sid. “Mantle mighta been faster, but Mays was more agile. Mantle would never have snared Wertz’s drive, even before the gizmo got his knee.”

“Maybe so, but remember, Mantle was a switch-hitter, the greatest ever. We can agree on one thing, I bet—Snider was not in their class.”

“Jesus, Muhray, that’s a little harsh. But you’re right. The Duke played in Ebbets Field. What a friggin bandbox.”

And so on they would banter while tossing lazy lobs under the sun in the park. One day, Murray said, “You know, I had a dream about us last night.”

“Oy, now I gotta listen to your dreams all of a sudden? Have you turned into a woman?” Sid threw the ball back to him, shoulder high.

“C’mon, Sid, men dream, for chrissake.”

“Sure, but they keep it to themselves.”

Ignoring Sid, Murray continues. “It was a baseball dream. I dreamed that we made an agreement. Whoever dies first, he comes back and lets the other know if there’s baseball in Heaven. Well, I died first in the dream. So I show up here in the park and sit next to you on that bench over there. You say, “Well, is there baseball in Heaven?” I say, “I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is there is baseball in Heaven; the bad news is you’re pitching tomorrow.”

Sad to say, neither Murray nor Sid made it to the pearly gates. They ended up in hell. It turns out both had violated several religious laws, including consorting with ladies of the night in their youth and repeatedly taking the lord’s name in vain. Oh well, they thought, Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company, as Ambrose Bierce once put it.

But of course, company notwithstanding, it was quite hot down below. One day as they were out for a grueling walk, Sid complained about the heat for the umpteenth time. “Goddamn, it’s hot, my feet are killing me.”

“Stop whining, Sid, for chrissake. You’re wearing a friggin’ t-shirt. I gotta wear this wool sweater. ‘Don’t forget to wear a sweater Murray,’ Rose says when I left the house that day. Oy.”

Suddenly, the temperature in hell plummets to 20 degrees below zero. Sid and Murray stop in their tracks, turn to each other and shout in unison, “Holy Cow, the Cubs just won the World Series!”

Sid and Murray used to meet in a park and play catch while talking baseball. Not long toss, mind you. They were both pushing 80, so they stood about 50 feet apart and lobbed the ball in that slow, nonchalant manner of professional ballplayers. “Shoulder high, Muhray,” Sid would shout.” C’mon, you can’t hold a proper conversation when the throw comes in at the knees.” “Yeah, yeah, I know, shoulder high, glove side,” Murray would respond as he caught Sid’s return toss.

They argued a lot, in a congenial way. Murray liked Mays over Mantle. “Mantle was the greatest, Sid, you gotta admit it. He was faster than Mays until he screwed up his knee on that goddamn irrigation gizmo.”

“Bull crap” said Sid. “Mantle mighta been faster, but Mays was more agile. Mantle would never have snared Wertz’s drive, even before the gizmo got his knee.”

“Maybe so, but remember, Mantle was a switch-hitter, the greatest ever. We can agree on one thing, I bet—Snider was not in their class.”

“Jesus, Muhray, that’s a little harsh. But you’re right. The Duke played in Ebbets Field. What a friggin bandbox.”

And so on they would banter while tossing lazy lobs under the sun in the park. One day, Murray said, “You know, I had a dream about us last night.”

“Oy, now I gotta listen to your dreams all of a sudden? Have you turned into a woman?” Sid threw the ball back to him, shoulder high.

“C’mon, Sid, men dream, for chrissake.”

“Sure, but they keep it to themselves.”

Ignoring Sid, Murray continues. “It was a baseball dream. I dreamed that we made an agreement. Whoever dies first, he comes back and lets the other know if there’s baseball in Heaven. Well, I died first in the dream. So I show up here in the park and sit next to you on that bench over there. You say, “Well, is there baseball in Heaven?” I say, “I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is there is baseball in Heaven; the bad news is you’re pitching tomorrow.”

Sad to say, neither Murray nor Sid made it to the pearly gates. They ended up in hell. It turns out both had violated several religious laws, including consorting with ladies of the night in their youth and repeatedly taking the lord’s name in vain. Oh well, they thought, Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company, as Ambrose Bierce once put it.

But of course, company notwithstanding, it was quite hot down below. One day as they were out for a grueling walk, Sid complained about the heat for the umpteenth time. “Goddamn, it’s hot, my feet are killing me.”

“Stop whining, Sid, for chrissake. You’re wearing a friggin’ t-shirt. I gotta wear this wool sweater. ‘Don’t forget to wear a sweater Murray,’ Rose says when I left the house that day. Oy.”

Suddenly, the temperature in hell plummets to 20 degrees below zero. Sid and Murray stop in their tracks, turn to each other and shout in unison, “Holy Cow, the Cubs just won the World Series!”